


the language of love

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Eloping, F/M, Marriage, and now we're here, it just did, listen. i have no idea how or why this happened to me, started from the bottom and now we're still at the bottom just with more eloping fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warmth floods her chest as she looks back to the boy in her arms, his eyelashes flickering in light sleep. Face half-pressed into her shoulder. She takes a breath, watching him, and makes up her mind.</p><p>"Fitz," she says, softly, running a finger over his ear. "Let's get married."</p><p>(Or, the time FitzSimmons eloped. In a foreign country. In the middle of the night.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the language of love

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to Laura (anneweaver) for being a fabulous and enthusiastic beta-reader, yet again! (Be sure to wish her a happy birthday tomorrow!)

 

 

 

* * *

_ [Again and again, however, we know the language of love,  _

_ and the little churchyard with its lamenting names  _

_ and the staggeringly secret abyss in which others  _ _ find their end:  _

_ again and again the two of us go out under the ancient trees, _

_ make our bed again and again between the flowers,  _

_face to face with the skies. ] _

* * *

They marry each other in a foreign country.

They marry each other in a foreign country, in a little cliffside church in the absolute middle of the night, and it happens like this:

The team straggles in from a mission, late. The Bus is in desperate need of maintenance and patching, for everything from bullet holes to broken windows, so they’re put up in a nearby motel for the immediate future. Until they can get back up in the air.

There’s a distinct air of exhaustion as the team partners off, heading either to shared rooms or to the shower. By all accounts, it’s been one in a rare series of luckier days — they're bloodied up and bone-tired, but not defeated. They’re cut up and run-ragged and maybe they’re trying not to think too hard, but they’re together, and that’s what counts.

Cool moonlight filters into the tiny room Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons have taken, mixing with the light from cheap yellow bulbs and casting bluish shadows on their bodies. They’re tangled up and stretched out on the too-small twin bed, the pair of them, doing their best to lie in ways that won’t prod bruises or reopen little cuts. The bulky television hums quietly in another language on the opposite wall, blending with murmurs from Skye and May’s room next door.

His eyes are closed like he might be dozing, but her mind is up and running, all systems exhausted but very much online.

She’s watching the wall behind his head without really seeing it, counting cracks and processing the day as his close breaths warm her neck.

Again, all in all, not a bad day. A few more scrapes to add the growing collection, maybe, a few close calls — but they are in the business of close calls. Nights like this are precious few — she could probably count on one hand the number of full-night sleeps they’ve managed in the past month. There are fewer of them as they go along, fewer easy days, fewer dawns that don’t break over hard plastic hospital chairs, the smell of weak waiting-room coffee and pacing families on every breath.

To add insult to injury, it seems that with every one of their own members sidelined, HYDRA only grows in number and strength. Their own numbers dwindle as HYDRA flourishes, finally out of the shadows. _Cut off one head, and two more take its place._

It occurs to her that they could very well be running out of time.

Warmth floods her chest as she looks back to the boy in her arms, his eyelashes flickering in light sleep. Face half-pressed into her shoulder. She takes a breath, watching him, and makes up her mind.

"Fitz," she says, softly, running a finger over his ear. "Let's get married."

He barely stirs.

For a moment, she figures he’s truly asleep. And then his bright blue eyes open only a few inches from hers, blinking slowly. Warm and sleepy, he's struggling earnestly to pull himself out of his daze in order to listen.

“Sorry?” he hums, sleepily, pulling her instinctively closer, half-raising his head from its comfortable place on his arm. "Say that again?"

“I _said_ —" she pauses, running a thumb over his cheek, "I think we should get married. Soon. _Tonight.”_

In no time, he's alert again, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Struggling up onto his elbows from his comfortable position, he watches her a moment, inscrutable. Then,

"Married?" The look that spreads on his face is like the sun breaking from behind clouds. He looks at her with such astounded hopefulness, it might break her heart.

"That's what I said," she confirms, with a small smile.

“Married?” he says, quieter, to himself. To her — “Tonight? _Now?”_

She laughs, pulling him close to her again. "How many different ways do I need to say this? Should I write it down, or ask again in the morning—?"

He doesn't rise to the fond teasing, tracking her expression in that thoughtful way that makes her sure he could read her every thought if he wanted.

Despite herself, she flushes under his eyes, feeling suddenly, inexplicably foolish, despite his enthusiasm. She’s _Jemma Simmons,_ for heaven’s sake. She doesn’t _do_ impromptu. Would this upset the natural balance of things? Maybe it isn’t such a good idea.

"What?" is all she says.

“Well, I— You know me, I’m all for it,” he assures her. “But, why tonight in particular?” he asks, curious.

“I just, I was thinking—” For a brief moment, her smile slips. “I don’t want to put off anything important any longer,” she says, resting a palm on his cheek. “I don’t want to assume we have unlimited time, you know?” Even though she knows it’s ridiculous, that living in the shadow of this world means they can never really take _anything_ for granted, anymore — especially not time.

“Oh, hey, don’t get gloomy on me, now,” he jokes, bumping her elbow with his. “This is a special occasion, and I won’t have you... glooming it up.”

Despite herself, she laughs.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. Then, “I didn’t know _glooming_ was a word.”

“It is,” he says, seriously. “It is a word.”

Re-shifting the focus of the conversation, she says, quieter, almost confidentially,

“Anyhow, I always figured we’d wait until we retired from field life? But then I saw a church a kilometer or so away, on the way here, and I thought. With everything we’ve got going on at SHIELD, now’s as good a time as any, right?”

He looks at her for a long moment, absently running a hand up and down her arm.

“Well, what do you think?” she prompts, after a minute, almost nervously. “I mean, really think?” She so badly wants this to work.

“There’s one problem,” he says, slowly. Pulling back slightly, to be able to look better into her face.

“Oh, no.” Her face falls. “What’s that?”

“Well—” He can’t hide the smile very long. “What to do about rings?”

She beams at him, and leans over to press a kiss to his mouth.

—

It’s midnight and misting, and they’re half-wandering in this unfamiliar landscape under the shelter of a big yellow umbrella. By the time they reach the church steps, they’re soaked to the skin. They’re not the most put-together party this rickety little cliff church has ever seen, maybe — she in his sweater and he in a borrowed raincoat, and maybe there's still a little blood under their nails, but they’re out of breath and laughing and leaning against each other and they’re there.

Fitz knocks hard on the heavy wooden door, Jemma’s arm tucked tightly under his free arm. He looks at her and smiles like he couldn’t possibly keep the excitement from his face; she gives an excited little jump, either from the cold or jostling nerves.

The little white-haired priest who swings wide the heavy door is a bit bewildered, to say the least, to find two British kids shivering on his doorstep in the middle of the night. He bids them enter, and goes for spare blankets as they try not to shiver too hard or drip too much water on the beautiful hardwood floors.

It’s shameful, really, that they can’t even remember what country they’re in, today — but, to their relief, the man speaks English and agrees with minimal coaxing to marry them.

For rings, Fitz has fastened temporary bands out of unused washer rings, a small thing that makes Jemma smile. He gives the slightly larger one to her, while holding onto hers until they exchange them.

There is only one small hiccup: the necessary matter of a witness. Which, unfortunately, neither of them had taken into account in this spur-of-the-moment, last-minute plan.

After a few minutes of harried discussion, they decide to call May to be their witness, because she's the closest and she's the _closest._ Additionally, with the odd hours she sleeps anyway, she probably _won’t_ want to kill them for calling for her to come out at close to one in the morning.

The priest generously agrees to wait as Jemma digs in her coat pocket until she locates her phone. Fitz leans into the opposite side of the phone, so he can hear both sides of the conversation.

“Simmons? What’s wrong?” comes May’s voice halfway through the first ring, perfectly alert, though hushed to keep from waking her roommate. Through the phone come immediately after the sounds of a body carefully extricated from a squeaky bed, the phone shifted to a shoulder as May no doubt pulls on her socks and boots, figuring she’s going to have to go out after them.

Jemma pauses, looking to Fitz. He tilts his head, shrugs.

“Did you two get lost again?” May asks, with a small sigh.

“No, no,” Jemma says, hurriedly. In the background, Fitz scoffs. “But, er. There’s something— And, feel free to say no to this, seeing as it’s the middle of the night, of course, and it’s raining and, oh, you were probably sleeping—” She’s starting to ramble. Fitz motions for her to get to the point. “Anyway. What I’m trying to say, is. Fitz and I, we have a bit of a favor to ask—”

—

She’s drying her trademark black boots in the doorway in less than half an hour.

“Oh, May, thank you so much for coming, in the middle of the night—” Jemma starts, rushing to her side.

“—on such short notice,” Fitz finishes, gratefully. Jemma nods rapidly.

May simply raises an eyebrow, an expression crossing her face that could be interpreted by only those closest to her as _vague fondness._ Crossing her arms over her chest, she looks them up and down, taking in their rain-soaked clothes and bright eyes, how close they stand, how they unconsciously lean toward one another at all times.

Damn it, she thinks, if there’s one pair on this plane getting hitched in the middle of the night in a foreign country, she’s glad it’s them.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” is all she says.

—

As with everything, May keeps watch over them the whole time. She’s sitting in the first row of pews, watching them watch each other.

The service itself doesn't take long. They use the scripted vows partly because, again, they hadn’t enough time to craft proper vows, but also because don’t trust their voices to manage anything else. Even so, Jemma has to pause a few times to clear her throat, and Fitz is blinking too much, eyes too bright. They don’t release each other’s hands except when it comes time to exchange their makeshift rings.

May isn't crying. She's not.

Well, she really, actually is _not_ , but she can't keep the tiny, satisfied smile from her face.

Fitz's free hand hovers unconsciously at Jemma's lower back as they receive and sign the marriage license; she leans her head into his shoulder. Strangely enough — or maybe not, considering their professions — the paperwork is first thing that makes it all feel _real._

They shake the priest’s hand, gratefully, and make their exit. On the way out, May slips her spare change into the offering box and tries to pretend she didn't.

This return trip is noticeably more comfortable, the two of them curled up in the back of the SUV instead of dashing through the rain.

"Try not to drip on the seats," she says, as flatly as if they’re coming home from a mission, but they can see her smile in the rearview mirror. Oddly, May driving them home from a clandestine wedding feels... appropriate.

On the ride back, Jemma flicks her eyes to May in the driver's seat and then leans in close to Fitz, puts her mouth right up to his ear.

"The day we were paired up in chem lab was the best day of my life," she says, so quietly and fiercely that it takes him by surprise. “I didn’t know it then, but I had met the person I’d want by my side for the rest of my life. And, I." She swallows, hard. "I didn't quite know how to say it, in there, but. I promise to be your best friend, and your partner, no matter what. We are better together.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, pulling her impossibly closer to himself. It takes him a long time to straighten his thoughts out enough to grasp at some semblance of a response.

He lets out a long, slow breath, hoping that his voice will last him. He's not brave enough to look her in the eyes, leaning instead his cheek against her hair.

“The day I first saw you was the best day of my life,” he says, for only her to hear. “You make me want to be the best version of myself I can be. You are... You're the best person I know," he says, honestly. There's a long pause, as he grapples with how to translate the thoughts into words. "And I am. I'm so lucky to be your best friend. So lucky."

"Spouse, too, now," she adds, shyly, nudging him with a finger. Tasting the word on her tongue ."You get to say that, now."

"Yeah," he says, feeling like he might never stop smiling. “Er. That, too.”

"Love you," she says, quietly, tucking her head into his shoulder.

"Love you, too," he says, back. They're comfortably quiet for the rest of the ride back.

—

When they tug each other out of their shirts a short time later, it’s slower than usual. Instead of a hurry of hands and mouths and desperation, it’s careful breaths and skin-warmed rings dragged carefully over tender and ticklish places. The room is 2am-dim but there's still enough light for him to see her pupils blown wide with his hands on her waist like that; he sighs out into her neck and searches to bring her even closer.

Just for tonight, they have all the time in the world.

They fall back onto the bed together like this is how they’ve always been meant to be, and she pulls the covers up and over them.

—

“We're changing our names, right?” he asks, the next morning. Looking up at her from where his head is pillowed on her stomach, trying to disguise the blatant hopefulness in his voice.

They've discussed it a few times in the past, of course — just going and changing them legally, once and for all. But. Never with the intention of going out that day and getting it done, or getting married on the way.

The morning light plays softly on her face as she lifts her chin to look out the window, illuminating the playful affection in her brown eyes.

And if good days are seldom, slow mornings are precious few and far between. Without any idea when the next might show up, they're making the most of this one. It's close to nine — an obscene hour to still be in bed, really, but they can't be bothered to do otherwise.

"Oh, I don't know." She ponders the idea languidly, lightly scratching her fingers across his hair the way he likes. "Combining our names could be more complicated than it's worth. All our research is published as individuals, and that might generate more confusion than necessary.”

Despite having considered this possibility himself, he tries to keep his face from falling. Cognitively, he knows that legal names are just legal names, and nothing could possibly take the FitzSimmons out of them. But. It would be quite pleasant to have their legal names match.

"Well, if you—" he starts, but she holds up a hand, asking him to let her finish the thought.

"And, besides,” she continues, holding back a smile, “I'm not sure _'FitzSimmons'_ is really catching on, anyway..."

He blinks. Then, realizing he’s been led on, he shakes his head. "Oh— oh, wow, okay.” He laughs. “Okay, you. Nice."

She laughs brightly. “Did you like that?” she asks. “Really had you going there, for a second. Of _course_ I want to change our names.”

He blushes. "Ah. Okay, good. Because I do, too."

“Of course I do,” she repeats, quieter. Rubbing his shirt collar between her fingers. “As soon as we can take our vacation days, we’ll go and get our names combined. Sound good?”

“Sounds _great,”_ he says, earnestly.

“Good.” She means to peck him on the lips, but he lingers, one hand on the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

“Wait, does this mean I can’t call you Simmons, anymore?” he asks, when he finally pulls back. She laughs a little.

“Oh, Fitz,” she says, fondly, fooling with the curls at the back of his neck. “Really, when was the last time you called me Simmons?”

He squints, struggling with that for a moment. “I... huh. I can't remember, actually."

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

“Don’t think so,” he replies, happily.

“Good,” she says, and taps his cheek. Then, whispering, like it’s a secret — “You can. You can still call me Simmons, if you want.”

“Yeah?” he says.

She nods, with a grin. Then,

“We should probably get a move on, soon,” she says, with a small sigh. She begins the delicate process of extricating herself from him, raking the room over for the sight of her clothes in their flung places.

“Right, of course,” he says, reluctantly, letting her up. A little more cheerfully, “Wouldn’t want to miss breakfast.”

“Ah, motel breakfast,” she says, flatly, retrieving her pants from the floor. “What’s not to love?”

“Ungrateful, is what you are,” he says, offended. With a concerted effort, he convinces his body it wants to be in an upright position. “I mean, if you’re not going to eat your portion,” he says, stretching, “at least donate it to a worthy cause.”

She doesn’t dignify this with a response, just rolls her eyes to the ceiling as she twists her hair into a reasonably messy bun. If this is as close to domestic bliss as they ever get, she thinks, she’ll be wholly satisfied for the rest of her life.

Though they’re both ready to leave, they stand for a moment longer. They might joke, but this is serious, now, as soon as they walk out that door. They’re each suddenly aware the cool, new weight of their makeshift-washer-wedding-rings around their fingers, how significant, how visible it is.

She bumps his shoulder with hers, takes his hand.

“Well, no going back, now,” he says, only half-serious. Twining their fingers together. “You’re officially stuck with me.”

“On the contrary,” she says. _“You’re_ stuck with _me._ For better or worse.”

He cracks a smile. As if he could ever consider himself stuck with her.

“I have a feeling it’s going to be _better,”_ he says, honestly.

“Yeah.” She smiles that private smile. “Me, too. You ready?” she asks, pulling him gently toward the door.”

He gives her a quick look. “Ready.”

And out they go.

—

They marry each other in a foreign country, but they have never known one another so well.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥
> 
> In case anybody wanted to know, the poem at the beginning is Rilke's "Again And Again, However, We Know The Landscape Of Love."
> 
> Also! If tumblr is something relevant to your interests, my url there is filzsimmons, as well!


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